


Backstage Pass

by Aliciadipesto



Category: Oasis (Band)
Genre: F/M, Liam Gallagher - Freeform, London, Oasis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10077395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliciadipesto/pseuds/Aliciadipesto
Summary: Delivery of flyers backstage has an unexpected outcome





	1. Backstage Pass

Backstage Pass

I’m looking around the dressing room backstage on my own, big coat on, feeling a bit out of my depth. I just want to get this box of flyers delivered and then I’m gone. There’s no one to sign for this and I was supposed to get a signature. Things get lost backstage at these venues all the time, I can’t just dump them, last time I got in big trouble for doing that. The room is pretty bare for a venue like this. Just a fridge, a sofa, TV, dressing table and wardrobe. Not even much on the walls. I always imagined these places as really glamorous, with food and drink laid on, hangers on everywhere, and groupies laid out on sofas like evening gowns. This is little better than a staffroom except I don’t see any Hobnobs around. There’s always Hobnobs in a staffroom.

I can’t believe I am this close to meeting one of my favourite bands. I mean, I don’t expect to actually meet them here while I’m working, but they are in the next room, walking through the corridor behind me, backstage somewhere I guess. I don’t know. I can still hear the crowd roaring as the band take their final bow. The reunion tour has been so massive, everyone has been talking about it, tickets sold out within minutes. The atmosphere in the auditorium is electric. I’m standing there for several minutes unsure of my next move. Not sure where to put this box and it’s getting heavy so I turn to place it on the table behind me and the door swings open and bangs against a metal chair. I jump, look up and freeze. Liam Gallagher is standing in the doorway swaying slightly, a glazed look on his beautiful, flawless face.

I can’t think of a single thing to say. A small noise leaves my throat.

He says something welcoming like ‘.....Fuck are you - ?,’ and walks over to the fridge, and I mutter something about the flyers and dropping them off.

I trip over my words and he looks back at me blankly. In my fantasies about meeting someone like Liam Gallagher I always imagine a witty exchange, him roaring with laughter and unable to tear his eyes away from mine but in the real world I am just standing there, hunched over these bastard flyers and unable to speak. My heart is absolutely pounding. He’s taller than I thought he’d be.

I repeat myself and ask about a signature for the flyers and he just shrugs, he’s breathing heavily, he’s just come off stage. Proper rock star. Who gives a shit about that, that’s what PA’s are for. Where is that PA - ? I was supposed to meet her or the publicist back here. My mouth has gone dry. He grabs a beer from the fridge and slumps onto the sofa. He puts his feet on the coffee table and takes a long swig and stares at me. I am still standing there and feel like I should have left already so I turn toward the door and he says,

'What’s your name?'

I clear my throat and tell him; I stumble over my own name, I have to say it twice. You only get one chance to make a first impression after all so I am rocking it. Why can’t I be called Claire? Where IS that PA?

‘How did the gig go?’ I ask.

‘Fuckin' mayhem at the end but crowd were fuckin' great. See it, did ya?’

‘I saw some of it. I’m working, I didn’t have time to see it all but you were uh.. amazing. I liked Up In The Sky the best.’

‘Yeah? Usually passes people by that one.’

‘It’s a fantastic song…. Anyway I don’t want to keep you.’

He must have all sorts of people waiting for him out there, I am expecting the door to swing open any moment. I really should leave but I am riveted, unable to tear my eyes away. He’s as gorgeous as I have ever seen him and Liam is one of those celebrities that can look terrible one day and beautiful the next. I've got him on a good day.

“Aren’t you hot in that big fuckin' coat?"  
“Actually I’m boiling."  
"Take it off. Sit down with me a minute."  
"Uh… ok." So witty. Such a clever conversationalist. My coat comes off.

I take a few steps towards him and stumble over the coffee table. He leans forward to catch me and I land heavily on the very low sofa rather too close to someone whose poster I had on my walls in the 90s and I lusted after for years. This couldn’t be any more simultaneously hideous and exhilarating.

"Want a beer?"

Without waiting for an answer he reaches over for a bottle of Heineken, takes off the top and hands it to me.

I can feel sweat pooling in awkward places, my heart is hammering, my mouth is dry. I am really close to him now. His hair is damp and his skin is glowing from the exertion of being on stage. I can see a line of sweat down that glorious neck of his and I want to lean over and kiss it. His white t-shirt makes his skin look tanned and he’s in good shape, you never see his body really in the papers, he always has on a massive parka even in the summer. I never really thought about his physique before and it’s here right in front of me and I can confirm he is actually pretty ripped. It’s hard not to give him a real once over. I am trying to remain professional; I am working apparently. I can see his stubble really close up and those incredible eyes of his are just looking at me glittering and expressionless. It strikes me the years have been very kind to him considering the hell raiser he used to be.

He asks me what else I liked about the gig and I tell him Slide Away is probably their best song – as I am describing what I liked he reaches across and pushes some hair out of my eyes. I feel unbelievably self-conscious, like a virgin on a first date.

Come closer, he says. "I can’t," I hear myself say. "You’re – you’re -"  
"What - I’m Liam Gallagher? Fuck that. Come here." It was more an instruction than a suggestion.  
"I really can’t. I - I’m married."  
"Me too. Twice. Fuck that n' all."

I look up at the ceiling and laugh and before I know it he’s leaned forward and is kissing my neck. I am so surprised I stop laughing and look at him. Then he leans in, cups my chin in his hand and kisses me on the mouth, softly at first and then harder. He puts his beer and mine down and shifts towards me. I can’t believe this is happening. My stomach flips over and I kiss him back. I put my hands through that beautiful hair and touch that mesmerising neck I have watched straining from a million pictures. Everyone says Noel has the talent and the intelligence and Liam is nothing but an arrogant frontman with a potty mouth and a drug problem but he is kissing me now and I can confirm he's also pretty good at something else.

He smells delicious, a mixture of sweat, aftershave and adrenaline. We’re kissing for some time and his hands are all over my neck, my back, my hair and it’s getting pretty out of hand. I put my hands under his t-shirt and feel his back muscles under my hands, his skin damp to the touch. He groans and pushes me back onto the sofa and has his full weight on top of me, his hands under my t-shirt, his lips kissing my neck, my ears, my lips. It’s utterly intoxicating and I am breathless with excitement. I groan back, my hands on his ass. His jeans are bulging and I am wet.

Then the door bangs open and there is Noel is standing in the doorway with a few other people behind him talking loudly. We spring apart and I look up at the other one of my heroes. The squashy low sofa is really hard to right myself in, but Liam is already sitting up, looking quite together. I am not. This can’t be happening. Liam laughs, I look at the floor, excruciatingly aware of myself, how this looks, what I must look like.

‘Come on our kid! Who’s this?’ Noel takes it all in.  
‘Meet Carolyn.’ I wave meekly as if we are miles from each other.  
‘Alright love. What are you doing in here?’

I was dropping off flyers, I say, absolutely mortified, smoothing my skirt. My hair looks like a birds nest and I am scarlet with embarrassment. I swear you can see my heart beating through my t-shirt.

‘Been a long time since I saw Liam backstage with a girl,‘ Noel says approvingly. This I find hard to believe but he always was the more charming one. Nice to get called a girl after all these years of being called Mrs, Madam, Mum etc.

‘Look the press are waitin, our kid. You comin?’  
‘Fuckin... No. You fuckin do it.’

Liam slouches back on the sofa and takes another swig.

‘Liam we gotta go man. Come on. Sorry darlin, stuff to do.’  
‘Of course, look I better go,’ I say, standing up and smoothing myself down.  
‘You’re going nowhere,’ he says to me, eyes like headlights. He turns back to his brother and says, ‘I’ll catch up with you in the car man. Help me out, yeah?’  
‘Honestly I am holding you up," I say. "You go. It was nice to meet you."

I might has well offered him my hand to shake. I am all too aware what this is, I am just another evening gown, I have no right to be here. I only came for a signature.

‘Fuck. Can I have your number?’

Thrilled, I write it on the top of a copy of the Mirror on the coffee table with a blunt pencil. Noel makes a comment about my also being left-handed; the older I get this seems to be a badge of cool I am only too happy to wear. I am beaming.

I straighten up too quickly, knock the beer all over the newspaper, trip on the coffee table again as I put on my huge coat. I feel beer dripping all over my feet and am spluttering apologies. I can’t bear any more of my clumsiness and I hear Liam calling my name as I run out of the door. I hear the door bang again and peals of laughter as I hurry down the corridor, without my signature, blushing furiously, shaking with adrenaline but utterly and secretly triumphant. No one will believe this ever happened to me.


	2. The Perfect Pitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreamy writer of Chapter 1 finds to her horror that occasionally life imitates art

The Perfect Pitch

“…....So you can see between the two of us we have both the marketing and the PR of your event in March pretty much covered,” Aysha was saying as she finished her coffee. I agreed with her, ooh yes it looks marvellous I said, and it did. I was very impressed, I was just anxious to get moving, I had so much to do before picking up the kids at 3. 

I don’t know why I schlepped all the way up to Camden Town so she could pitch her company to me in this cramped little office. She should have come to me really, I am the client after all. They were really nice and certainly capable; I was just always doing stuff like this, chasing around town for people to sell me stuff when it should be the other way around. I cursed my time management and inability to say no.

Amber’s phone pinged and she stood up, saying her next client was at the door. She left the room apologising. Aysha was updating me about other events they’d done but I was only half listening, putting my stuff away, desperate to escape and warm up on the tube, it was chilly in that meeting room.

Amber returned, bringing in a man behind her and said, “Sorry Carolyn, my client’s a bit early, he said he can hang on outside till we’re finished. But I should introduce you all the same – Liam this is Carolyn, Carolyn you probably know Liam.” And she stepped sideways to reveal what appeared to be, unbelievably, Liam Gallagher, hands in pockets, hips pitched forward, with that cocky ‘Come on let’s 'ave yer’ look on his face. I laughed out loud in surprise. My innards lurched. She smiled at me and winked. 

They say that very charismatic people fill up a room and that’s really true. The room took on a claustrophobic quality and suddenly it seemed terribly cramped in there. He was wearing blue jeans, a brown leather jacket zipped up and his hair was cropped short so you could properly see his mesmerizing, slightly asymmetrical face. Suddenly I wasn't in such a tearing hurry after all. 

He leaned in, said hello and shook my hand across the table and chairs which now seemed to have taken on monstrous proportions. I leaned toward him over all that furniture, mouth dry and heart pounding, doing that silly thing when you meet a Grade A famous person and act as if he isn't famous at all, indeed it's as if you can barely put the face to the name. I might have babbled something about being an Oasis fan I think; even though I knew Aysha and Amber had some big name clients and they’d told me about Liam Gallagher before, I was caught totally off-guard. He was actually quite charming, smiled hello, said it was nice to meet me. Then he doffed an imaginary cap, said he’d be outside and in mock-theatrical fashion, backed out of the room. 

“I’ll be with you in a minute Liam ok?” Amber called to him. “Sorry about that,” she said, “I hope you didn’t mind that interruption. So look, this is all excellent and I think we can do some great stuff together,” sweeping her arms at the paperwork in front of us, smiling at us both, oblivious that internally I was doing lavish cartwheels and couldn't have cared less about any PR campaign, least of all my own. 

"Oh no," I answered, "that was a lovely surprise - I'm kind of blown away actually!" 

"Yes I remember you mentioning you were a fan when we met at the awards," Amber nodded. "He's a sweetie really, he gets a lot of negative press... but when you have a tendency to punch photographers...." She laughed and rolled her eyes. 

She started shuffling paper, signalling the meeting was coming to a close; I hardly heard a word. I was actually shaking, I felt a bit breathless even, how loony is that. I’m a married middle aged mother of two, I have met countless celebrities, travelled the world, I'm MD of my own international business, I'm capable of addressing hundreds of people assembled in a room unscripted and yet here I am, reduced to absolute jelly by a rock star. An aging rock star at that. I even know I am 6 months older than him, and his birthday is September 21. Pathetic. The girls and I said our goodbyes and scheduled next steps – I was in such a state I have no idea what these were. 

Bouncing out of the room a minute later, adrenaline surging, I called out chirpy goodbyes and strutted down the corridor. I swung open the fire door and thundered down the stairs two at a time with ‘OMG I just met Liam Gallagher! I just met Liam Gallagher!’ sing-songing in my head with a huge smile on my face – I believe I may have squeaked out loud - when I heard an unmistakable voice behind me say,

‘Hey Wanda Woman.’

I whirled around and there he was, leaning on the railing above me in the concrete stairwell, looking relaxed, improbably gorgeous, half smiling down at me. Wanda Woman? WANDA WOMAN?! How on earth could he know about that? Wanda Woman was the name of a blog I’d written containing just one story, a steamy, entirely fictional encounter with Liam Gallagher backstage in his dressing room. Never meant for anyone’s benefit, least of all the subject of the story himself. The blog had just one follower: me. 

I said, “What? What did you say?” I was motionless on the stairs, horrified.

“I liked your story. The girls showed it me. Very funny.”

I had a faint memory of meeting Aysha and Amber a few months ago; we were at an awards dinner and once I'd heard about their famous client I'd showed them my blog on my phone. We were all very pissed; did I send it to them? I can't remember. I had forgotten all about it and certainly never thought they’d have ever actually read it. I was surprised to even hear from them again. Blogs are generally interesting only for the writer; if you’re extraordinarily lucky they are maybe interesting for the reader. 

"I - I don't understand," I stammered.

He added, “There's no meeting today with the girls," shaking his head, motioning toward the office. "I got them to bring you here. So I could meet you.”

The stairwell started to swim before me. Liam was still talking but he sounded very far away. I reached blindly for the railing and fell forward as the blackness closed in, legs buckling. I heard a 'Fuck!' as he came running down the stairs. I can’t remember much after that except finding myself being fanned and slapped by all three of them some time later, lying on the freezing concrete stairs, extremely uncomfortable and sore. Oh no oh please no. 

Appalled, I managed to sit up, drink some water handed to me and the lead singer from Oasis appeared to say, “Fuck me. Been a while since I had that effect on a woman.” Aysha told him to shut up. I smiled weakly, mute with embarrassment. My knees were scraped, tights ripped and my cheek was ringing, I must have hit something on the way down. My phone, wallet, keys, a tampon and, I noticed, a child's purple sock were scattered around the stairwell below me and my bag was at the bottom of the steps. I closed my eyes. I wanted to die.

"I'm really sorry," he said. "You alright?" 

The girls fussed over me for a few minutes, putting a plaster on my knee and dabbing tissues while Liam stood behind them trying to make me laugh, and then he took over, telling them to get back to work and he had it from here. I was so mortified by all this that I assured them I was fine and not to worry. A flurry of are you sures? and are you alrights? followed and then they were gone. I heard laughter in the corridor. No wonder. 

“I’ve had all sorts over the years,” Liam was saying, collecting my things to my absolute horror, “but I ain’t never had a story written about me, not one like that. I really enjoyed it. Turned me on. You got one thing wrong though.”

“What’s that?”

“I fuckin' hate lager. I'm more the real ale type.” 

I laughed weakly and stood up, swaying slightly. “Whoa, steady. You ok? Come on, we'll get you a cup of tea, something to eat. I shouldn't have told you like that," he said. "I didn't think. It must have been a bit of a shock I spose." 

"You think?"

He looked sideways at me, trying to hide a smile. "I just thought it would be a laugh..." 

I felt lightheaded but more because I seemed to have Liam Gallagher now zipping up my coat, standing a few steps below me on the stairs."Nice parka," he was saying. I could smell his aftershave, the leather of his jacket, the scent of his shampoo on his hair, he smelled gorgeous. 

He took my hand and led me down the steps to the bright winter sunshine outside. We were in a side street in North London, not a place I know well and I had to let him take control and find our way to the main road. 

A few minutes later we were in a low-rent transport cafe, the type with red and brown sauce on the tables, and I had a mug of strong tea and some buttered toast in front of me. I don't think the clientele even noticed the A lister and the injured woman in the corner.

"Your cheek looks a bit angry," he said. "Anyone would think you'd fallen down the stairs."

I was feeling much better, the shock was subsiding. I was determined to make the best of this and started asking him general questions about the music, the band, his next album. Keep things polite. Best thing really when your private sexual fantasy has been exposed to the very subject of that fantasy. Grill the man about his solo career. 

He waved my questions away and said with a half smile, "Let's talk about your story."

"Oh God...What do you want to know?"

"Why? What made you think of it? I couldn't write - not like, fuckin - "

"It's no big deal...I don't know... I've always, er, had a little thing for you, I realise that's no big deal for you Mr Rock Star, I know, you have women throwing themselves at you all the time. Must be a crazy way to exist, I guess it's normal for you." 

"But this has just happened lately. I mean, I'm not the obsessive fan type. This has come out of nowhere, rather late in life as well. Turning 40, getting older, being a mum, I don't know. It's a big shift, a lot to come to terms with. It's made me nostalgic for the 90s, the music, flatsharing in London, a happy time in my life - not that I'm unhappy now - and I saw you in the press a lot with that movie coming out, I saw the film - which was great by the way. A little fantasy began I guess, it's just... escapism. And a serious celebrity crush, I mean, might as well call a spade a spade," I added carelessly. What did it matter anyway? 

I looked up at him; he was listening intently and I continued, "I never wrote it with anyone in mind you know, to actually read it. I can't believe I'm here explaining myself - to you of all people!" I laughed out loud and a couple nearby turned to look at us and I saw one nudge the other. He'd been recognised. He looked down and smiled at the table. "Mad. Fuckin mad," he said quietly, more to himself I think than anyone else. "Fuckin internet, it's mental." 

"I ...I don't know if this is making any sense..." I added, looking at my uneaten toast. I'd run out of words and appetite. This was so insane. I looked up at him. "Do you take all your crazed fans out for coffee?"

He laughed and said, "Only the really mental ones - they get the VIP treatment. But no, I get it. You might think it's brilliant to be so famous but it's a pain in the arse a lot of the time, I can't go anywhere, you know what I mean? So yeah, I know all about escapism... and getting older ain't great either is it. It took me back and all, your story, it was all mad back then. I loved every minute of it. Wish I was still there." He gazed out of the window for a few seconds, lost in thought. "I loved your story. Gonna write any more?" 

"Is that an order?" 

His striking features were weathered now after all these years of having it and having it and being mad for it, but even up close he still looks incredible. His expression softened and he said,

"Too right. I want first look. I think it's only fair," he grinned at me. "Make it more juicy next time.." 

Something smashed in the kitchen behind us and brought real life flooding back. Suddenly the atmosphere changed and he sat up straight, ran his hand over his day old stubble and said, "Come on, let’s get you in a cab.” My heart sank.

Outside in the street, he asked me where I was going, where I lived, about my kids, my husband. Wasn't I clever for marrying a musician, and an Irish one at that, he said. A taxi pulled up quickly. Too quickly.

He leaned into the open window. “Waterloo please mate”, he said then turned to me. He said, “There… now,” he smoothed my hair down and righted the hood on my parka. "You look lovely. Sorry I gave you a fright." 

I moved towards the cab to open the door and he pulled me back. He sneaked a look up and down the street behind him and said in a low voice, “…Was this what you thought it would be like?” He lifted my chin, bent his head and to my amazement kissed me softly on the lips. He put his other arm around me and and leaned in a bit more, kissing me more firmly. I let out a sigh and just submitted to it, let the experience take me over. My legs weakened and I felt his hand move down to the small of my back and pull me towards him, supporting me. I just melted. It was intoxicating, suffocating, exhilarating. I didn’t want it to end.

He gave a little moan and came up for air, oblivious the meter was running. The cab driver was looking at his phone, not noticing any of this. “Wow,” he said, kissing me on the cheek, then a slow kiss on the mouth one more time. "I might have nearly killed you but it was worth it for that," he stroked my sore cheek. "Looks a bit better now." 

He opened the cab door and I got in.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” I told him and he wrinkled his nose and shook his head. He leaned into the open window, kissed me again. He rapped the roof of the car, the cab pulled away. I looked out of the back window; he blew me a final kiss and turned to go. I turned back to face the driver, stunned and motionless. Had that just actually happened?

When I finally got home and turned on the laptop, I saw I had gained a new follower: Boywanda.

 

*********


	3. Due Care & Attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long day and a boring bus ride is interrupted by a minor traffic infringement, and Carolyn discovers that even the coolest celebrity is hopeless in an emergency situation

By the time I left the office it was dark and I was in a foul mood. End of the month, a few more days till pay day, nothing in the fridge at home, the dregs of a hangover. Kids would be asleep by the time I got home, then tag team with husband so he could go out. I was facing a boring early night at home and a tedious, stop-start journey getting there by bus because the tubes were on strike. Again. At least I had a seat. 

I was staring out of the window when the bus came to a stop at some lights and I saw something that made me look twice. A plump old lady came tearing out of an alleyway between two shops wearing nothing but a green dress, no shoes and a clear shower cap on her head, looking terrified, dishevelled and confused. She was yelling incoherently at someone presumably ahead of her and waving what looked like a red dog collar in one hand and a blue tea towel in the other. It was really cold and wet so the no shoes thing struck me more than anything else; in the part of London where I live you get used to seeing all sorts, but she was clearly distressed and ran straight out into the road and into the path of the car which was overtaking my bus, and it obscured my view of her at first.

There was a dull 'thunk' noise and a screech. Alarmed, I stood up to look over the car to see what had become of her - there didn't seem to be any serious impact, but there was obviously some sort of commotion, and without thinking I ran off the bus to help. The car had red driving school ads all over it so it probably wasn't going fast; from what I could make out the man at the wheel was staring straight ahead, frozen in fear and dread. His driving instructor was shouting and gesturing at the windscreen, swinging open the car door in panic.

She was lying in the road looking skyward, very dazed. Her eyes were rolling and she was groaning 'It's gone, it's gone, it's all gone.' Someone said that classic thing about giving her some air but the air was so cold she was more in danger of hypothermia than suffocation so I took my coat off, crouched down and placed it on her. I lifted her head and put my scarf underneath her, which I later realised is the absolute worst thing I could have done. The terrified driver and his teacher joined me and a few others around her, everyone talking at once. The attention seemed to shift from the injured party on the ground to the driver of the car and initially I assumed it was basic fury at his general incompetence until I heard a girl say, 'No way! I can't believe it!'

I looked up then and saw what the all the fuss was about. Someone looking awfully like Liam Gallagher was peering down at the scene looking shocked, arms folded awkwardly; Liam, who caused me to pass out on the stairs in a strangely public exchange about a very private matter barely a month earlier on the other side of London. I did a double take. What on earth was he doing taking driving lessons in Tooting High Road? The traffic is notoriously bad round here, he must have rocks in his head. He was a long way from home as well. I doubted he could place me amid all this drama and he seemed uncharacteristically mute. Dark glasses during a night time driving lesson? What was the man thinking? No wonder he's never passed his test. I'd heard he couldn't drive, I thought it was because he wouldn't drive, that it was all part of being a Rock n Roll Star. He looked deeply uncomfortable; I almost felt sorry for him. Phones were being whipped out of pockets and selfies taken, it was completely inappropriate; in spite of my thumping heartbeat and disbelief at having run into the world famous subject of my fantasy not once but twice in a month, now was not the time to be swept up in a celeb spot situation.

I asked the lady her name; Elsie, she told me. That was good, she was conscious and could hear me. I asked her if she knew where she was and she groaned again, so I took her hand in both of mine and told her not to worry, we were there to help. I made soothing noises and asked her if it hurt; she turned her head and I saw some blood behind her ear. I asked Liam to call an ambulance, seeing as bizarrely I knew him better than anyone else assembled there. He was non-responsive, staring down at the mess he'd made, so I looked over at his teacher who had gone very white and said, Hello?! Seriously? Call an ambulance! Now! More fiddling with phones.

The bus driver came over with two community support officers who cleared the people out of the way. The people that get called 'onlookers' in situations like this. Unless they're dead onlookers, or overseas onlookers, and then they're generally called Britons, I've noticed. You're never a Briton unless you're missing abroad, or dead abroad.

An ambulance and police pulled up fairly quickly but it still seemed a terribly long wait especially for poor Elsie whose feet were going blue and she had most likely gone into shock. Liam and his teacher were blaming each other by this stage, voices raised, foul language was being exchanged. It was almost like an Oasis reunion. I can't say it was Liam's or the instructor's fault exactly; Elsie did run right into his path, but the dark glasses would not have helped his defence.

The paramedics had her up in a stretcher and in the back of the ambulance very swiftly and the police were talking to Liam and his instructor; I was then involved as a witness. Elsie left the scene for St Georges Hospital, sirens wailing. The police insisted on Liam taking off his dark glasses, and when I told the officer my name he looked at me properly for the first time. 

He recognized me then and exclaimed, "Fuck me!" and maybe it was the shock of what had happened and surprise at seeing me, I don't know, but I could see he was trying not to laugh. I mean, really. The officer was taking his details and in the middle of it Liam glanced up at me with a searing look that went straight to my nether regions. It was hardly the time or place but I couldn't help it, I did it straight back. We stared at each other for a long time while the officer was taking notes, and amid all the commotion he mouthed at me 'you look lovely'.

A crowd had gathered on either side of the street and the bus was stationary, heaving with people; phones were flashing and I could hear shouts of 'I love you Liam!' and 'Liam you fucking rock man!' It was kind of amazing being in the epicentre of this. I could just picture Twitter trending with #liamgallagheraccident, or #liamdriving, or worse. Imagine what Noel would be thinking, he's so straight, so righteous, he'd be furious with his little brother. As I say, I almost felt sorry for him. But really. Learning to drive - learning to drive! At night in Tooting! In dark glasses! He had it coming to him, Elsie or no Elsie. I didn't think his driving instructor would last long.

The police were slow to recognise the futility of trying to interview a world famous rock star on Tooting High Road surrounded by shouting fans but eventually they invited us to continue the interview at the police station, about a mile away. In a surreal moment I found myself squeezed in the back of a police car with a now very animated Liam Gallagher, pumped up by all this drama, back to his old self, a gibbering driving instructor and two very excited male police officers, one of whom lost all protocol once we'd left the scene, turned to Liam and asked him for an autograph. The dark glasses returned to Liam's face and Rock Star mode was switched to On.

I felt a leg pressed hard next to mine while the driving instructor was growing increasingly agitated defending himself to the police, who were trying to calm him down. Liam turned to me and said in a low voice,

"Bit of a coincidence isn't it? If you wanted to see me again you only had to ring," and he peered at me over the top of his glasses, eyebrows raised. He took my breath away.  
"You're ex-directory," I replied and looked out of the window. He laughed, squeezed my thigh and left his hand there; nobody seemed to notice, but then we were in a fairly unorthodox situation I suppose. My entrails went liquid and I nearly licked the glass with excitement. I pushed my leg back in his direction and his hand moved further up my thigh.

We pulled up outside the police station and headed up the steps one by one, the police and the instructor ahead of us. As we made it up the steps Liam tugged the hood of my coat and said, hey. I turned around one step ahead of him so we were more or less the same height.

"What are the odds?" he laughed. "It's mental bumping into you like this."  
"Well, I think you bumped into Elsie first," I said.  
"I know, I feel really bad. Do you think she'll be alright?"  
"I don't think it's that serious. But I'd avoid the dark-glasses-at-night trick in your next lesson."  
"Fuckin' smart arse, aren't you?" He moved closer to me.  
"What are you even doing south of the river?" I asked him.  
"Am I? I don't know where I am. Driver brought me this way. I'm on an intensive course."  
I looked at his mouth and said, "Intense is right." And he kissed me hard, right there in front of the station. He did that thing again and held me by the small of my back so I could just fall into him, it was glorious. I groaned and snaked my arms around his neck. The door swung open and one of the male officers cleared his throat. We sprung apart.

"I... take it you already know each other -?" he looked confused.  
Liam nodded. "She's my official biographer," and patted my bottom.  
"Well if you could tear yourselves away, you are required to provide a statement, Mr Gallagher, Ms...?"

We were separated into different rooms. Liam turned and shot me another paint-stripping look on his way out. I rang home and explained the bizarre circumstances, feeling very guilty as I obviously didn't give all the details. What on earth was I playing at...I had an anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. The whole thing had a dream-like quality to it, like it wasn't really real. Not that that's any defence of course. 'It didn't feel like it was real, your honour." No I need to work at that one.

I gave my statement. I know I should have been thinking about poor old Elsie but I was actually thinking about his clothes, how does he pull it off, looking that good all the time? Even in a road traffic accident he looked like he'd just left a photo shoot, expensive navy trench coat, desert boots, 2 day old stubble, tousled hair. In total contrast I didn't even want to look at myself, bleary eyed after 10 hours staring at a computer screen, hem coming loose, roots needing doing.

Wouldn't it be amazing if Liam, the driving instructor and I all head off for a curry on the High Road after this, I thought. We'd have a laugh over a lamb pasanda, clink glasses and say it's a funny old game. Hopefully the driving instructor would be keen to get his car back and disappear. I was quite carried away with the possibilities of what might happen next when a female officer came in and told me I could go. My disappointment would have been obvious. I snapped back to reality, lingered outside for as long as I could without making a nuisance of myself and eventually left. God knows what he was being charged with.

By the time I got home it was nearly 11pm, too late to call anyone so I tumbled straight into bed, exhausted by all the excitement. It took a long time to get to sleep. I am just a crazed fan, not a girlfriend. Or even a friend. Get a grip, I told myself. You're a married woman. And middle aged at that. This is just a mad coincidence. I tried to put all this in perspective but it all kept playing in my head and the image of him in the back of the police car with that lazy smile on his face kept swimming in front of me as I eventually drifted off.

Next morning my phone pinged. Up came the little Twitter bird and my new friend in Scotland @Zoe_C86 said, "Crazy news about LG - he must be feeling very silly x"

I didn't reply straight away. We've never met, we are friends through my secret Twitter handle and a shared crush on Liam Gallagher, we have a lovely time talking nonsense to each other. She'd have never believed me if I'd told her I was there, as if London is a little village and we are all in each other's pockets all the time. The PR girl thing is almost a step too far to be believable and that actually happened. She'd think I was a total nutter if I told her I had been involved in this. And how was Elsie doing? What had become of her and why DID she burst onto Tooting High Road like that anyway? The shower cap, the shoeless entrance, the dog collar? I was intrigued. Was Liam charged with anything or was it just considered a freak accident?

Back on the bus gazing into space, my phone pinged again with 'OMG! I just saw you in the picture with LG - this never happened did it? Am I dreaming?! Tell me!!" And attached was an article in the Daily Mail featuring a very poor photograph, of me, unmistakably me at fairly close range, surrounded by people, bending over Elsie at a most unflattering angle with a concerned Liam looking over my shoulder next to a tortured looking driving instructor. There. On the internet. In living colour. My arse for all the world and @liamgallagher to see and inspect clearly. Forever. Oh the delight, the thrill of fame. If this is what he has to deal with on a daily basis I am disabling my Twitter account immediately.

There followed a long, borderline hysterical conversation with Zoe who was so sweet and supportive and kindhearted, actually considering we haven't met in person just the sort of interaction I needed the day after something as bizarre as this. Elsie was in ok shape, being kept in for observation, and had only sustained a few cracked ribs and concussion amazingly. Strong lady. I didn't find out anything else about the reasons for her distress. Once at work I obsessed madly for much of the day, pored over the web for details but that photo of me just kept surfacing again and again and my Facebook page was an absolute riot of activity. I gave everyone a stock answer about being glad to help in an emergency situation and kept the other details completely to myself. By 4pm it all got too much and in the end I just decided to do some work.

After about 40 minutes hard slog preparing a press release, my concentration failed completely and I felt compelled to write the whole story down, if for nothing else but to clear my head. I opened my blog and noticed a comment on my home page, my first one. Either Zoe or one of my mates. I clicked on it and felt the colour drain from my face as I read:

'That was mental wasn't it. Need to talk to you. LG X'

I nearly fell off my ergonomic office chair, then when realised I had no way of reaching him I nearly fell off it again. Aysha and Amber would have been the obvious route, and they are very nice but are also very professional and would quite rightly refuse to pass on personal details for their hugely famous client. So I did the only obvious and sensible thing. A sane and rational move. Anyone would have done it.

I went to his local pub.

 

*********


	4. Daytime Drinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curiosity gets the better of Carolyn...and so does Liam Gallagher

So I say I went to his local pub. It actually wasn't that easy.

I do have a husband. Family. Responsibilities. Quite a responsible job. At some point these inconvenient truths waded into my pubescent fantasies; friends pointed out quite rationally and several times that I was losing my marbles and, shamed into it, I reluctantly got a hold of myself. Cracked on with work. Took care of my kids. Ignored that message on my blog and reminded myself that my little world was a world away from his altogether larger world. And so time passed. Christmas came and went, the weather got colder, I stopped checking my blog. My Twitter feed became a little less of an essential item to check and check and check again. And I gradually welcomed reality back into my life. It was all a bit ridiculous, I said to myself, in fact, a lot ridiculous. This is real life. Homework with the children. Feeding a neighbour's cats. Book club. Hanging out washing. Doing the weekly shop.

Yes that's what I'd like to say happened, but then we are talking about Liam Gallagher here, and not one but two seemingly random meetings that have come out of nowhere. He actually kissed me twice. Not an easy thing to rationalise and put into perspective. How did this happen? Was it just luck? London is funny like that, the people you meet seemingly randomly can lead to all sorts of unexpected consequences. I certainly felt lucky sitting next to Liam’s PR girls on the night of those awards. I would be surprised if they felt the same way; I probably made a complete dick of myself. They probably felt they’d been dealt a bad hand stuck next to me for 3 hours.

Maybe luck had nothing to do with it. Maybe I don’t even believe in luck. Or fate. Maybe it was just a crazy coincidence. I have morphed from average suburban working mother to superfan in a matter of months - I'm not proud of it, merely stating a fact.

So I was falling off my ergonomic office chair wasn't I. And I did. It didn't take a lot of googling to work out where his local is and one afternoon I found myself in the neighbourhood quite by chance. Well I say that, I actually cleared an afternoon in my diary, took a tube completely out of my way for the best part of 40 minutes to end up in his neighbourhood quite by chance. Walked around a bit by myself, felt very alone and started questioning my mental health. The clouds were heavy with rain and it was one of those grey London days where it never seems to get quite light. The red brick mansion blocks loomed high on either side of the treeless street on the way up the hill from the tube and it all seemed quite oppressive, not leafy and monied as you'd expect. But maybe it was just my mood.

I did find the pub and I peered in the window. It was very dark, heavy wood everywhere, virtually empty at 2 in the afternoon on a weekday. Course it was empty. I went in anyway, heart thumping, feeling very exposed and ordered myself a glass of red. As you do, in the middle of the day when you are miles from home with no particular plan in mind. It was an old school kind of pub with a kettle not a coffee machine; given my rattled state of mind I was happy to self-medicate with alcohol that afternoon.

There was no indication I was actually in the right place; I don't know what I was expecting, a signed 10x8 of the man in a clip-frame by the bar or something? A blue plaque? I was looking for some indicator but didn't find it.

Apart from 2 mums in the window of the pub with toddlers, pushchairs and a half empty bottle, and several old men scattered around reading the paper, I was alone in there. Fleetwood Mac was on the jukebox and the bar maid looked bored, scrolling up and down on her phone. The mums and kids were making a lot of racket and I felt momentarily wistful for a time not so long ago when I had toddlers - then quickly banished the thought. There isn't much tempting about returning to a time of stair-gates, sterilising and Mr Tumble, nostalgia apart. I'm glad to be out the other side. Out the other side and parked in a pub in north London hoping to bump into a famous person that is, oh yes the possibilities are endless now the kids are that much older, I thought savagely. What on earth was I doing here.

I gulped down my wine, which I had optimistically stuck on a tab. Paid the bill quickly. Somehow being in a pub on one’s own as a woman is still awkward; it still looks like you've been stood up regardless of your age and appearance, well that's how I feel anyway. Coffee shops are the opposite, but in a pub a woman on her own just looks a bit sad and dejected.

Thank goodness I was way up in North London and far from anyone I knew - imagine if I got caught by someone sitting here hoping to see a famous person, I thought. My cheeks went pink imagining how a conversation with any one of my friends or family might play out. This all felt a bit contrived and nothing like as spontaneous as our previous two meetings, and I lost my nerve. I had to get out of there. What if he actually walked in, what was I actually going to say to him? I had no plan at all. I just wanted to go home.

With new resolve and a sense of purpose, I was packing up my bits and pieces visualising all this horror when the mums raised their voices in greeting and I heard the toddlers yelling loudly at newcomers to the pub. The door opened and an overloaded pushchair tipped backwards - hilarity ensued. More pissed up mummies and over-excited snotty kids arriving presumably. Jesus I thought, get me out of here. With my head tucked into my parka I made for the entrance, crowded with further pushchairs and mothers. I swung past a couple of people on the way out, we clipped shoulders and my oversized bag got caught on the handle, preventing any of us from moving ahead, which I furiously tried to extricate. I hate this bag, it's like it was designed to get caught on anything. A flurry of sorry's followed and then to my horror someone said my name.

I looked up and there he was, right in front of me, looking surprised but rather delighted. I was so unprepared and astonished I'd actually tracked him down that I blurted a hello, but the momentum of the swinging door kind of kept me moving past him as he said something unclear back at me and then I was out in the street, leaving him inside, squinting after the darkness in the pub. A pause ensued and I stood outside wondering if he'd come back outside – I wasn’t going to head back into that mummy mayhem and try and have a sensible conversation – and luckily the door swung open again and all of a sudden Liam Gallagher was facing me outside in the street.

“Carolyn! What the fuck are you doing up here?” Never one to mince his words.  
“I, er, had a meeting with a client,” I lied, feeling the blood rise up my neck and rest on my cheeks. I am a hopeless liar.  
“Hmm,” he said looking doubtful. Good to see you”, he said, “I tried to get hold of you after the er, incident..”  
“Did you?” I asked innocently. Hard-to-get instinct kicked in in spite of being caught out, caught stalking a world famous rock star. “I didn’t realise.”  
He smiled and said, “Let’s get a coffee.” I nodded, heart pounding, stomach churning with butterflies. What were the odds he’d actually turn up at the pub the only time I went to find him? We walked a few doors down and I heard a shout of Liam! from the pub but he seemed quite determined to escape the attention of all those mothers – what on earth was that all about? A more unlikely setting I can’t imagine for the hard drinking, foul-mouthed former Oasis frontman with grown up kids. I would grill him on this later.

We settled in the corner of an Italian café, left alone again – North London treats it’s A Listers with real disdain, you wouldn’t get this where I live – and Liam said, “So they charged me with fucking driving with undue care and attention you know,” sipping his coffee.

“You’re kidding! You didn’t do anything, Elsie ran out in front of you! I think that’s really unfair. What happened next? I never heard about it in the press…” My voice petered out. I was still in a daze. Was this actually happening?

“No well that’s why lawyers make so much fuckin money, fuckin ghouls,” he scowled. “I never want to see another one as long as I fuckin live.”

I didn’t want to pry and said nothing. Not really my business. But let’s be clear. Liam Gallagher isn’t my business. What the hell was I doing? I should have been doing domestic things, work things, mummy things myself, not consoling the ex-frontman of Oasis in a coffee shop miles from home. This was utterly nuts, and while I felt some compulsion to get the hell out of there, I couldn’t move a muscle. He looked absolutely beautiful, even at close range with a deep frown and a few days’ stubble. 

“Listen can you drive?” he asked suddenly.  
“Of course. Why?”  
“Alright! Show off!”  
“No I didn’t mean –“  
“I’ve got a car round the corner, want to get out of here?”  
“Yeah!” I didn’t mean to sound this enthusiastic.   
And he nodded to the owner, left some change on the table, walked a few hundred yards and sure enough there was a glorious 2 door, dark blue Mercedes 500SL cabriolet, a classic 80s model I have always admired, in pristine condition. It had obviously been restored, resprayed, new fabric roof, chrome gleaming. What a class act. He might be a terrible driver but he has amazing taste in cars. Liam passed me the keys. Let me be your middleman, I thought to myself, sliding in behind the wheel. I turned the engine over and my nerves evaporated. I sighed with happiness. Could it get any better than this?! If there is one thing I love doing and do well it’s driving, and as my world famous passenger was a known menace on the roads I felt in control for the first time throughout this whole bizarre episode. 

The car was a joy to drive and we headed north, stop starting through Highgate, out through the dreary post war sprawl of the north circular and pretty soon we were on the M1 making good progress, Liam rooting around the foot well looking for cassettes to put into the ancient stereo, chatting easily about music, the band, his family, his kids, making me laugh out loud. He talked about Noel and said nothing I hadn’t already heard him say publicly about that situation, it was really very sad. I'd hoped it was all a big publicity stunt. He was surprisingly good company – he doesn’t come across as the most articulate rock star but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have plenty to say. I let him talk, laughing at his jokes, waiting for a good moment to say,  
“.....Where are we going?”  
“Little place I know up north. Fancy it?”  
I nodded. Now was the time to admit what had been on my mind since I cleared the North Circular. I had childcare issues looming; my kids would need collecting from after school club on the other side of London in a few hours. I was not about to ruin this incredible situation with a few silly real-life details. I gulped, realising that I couldn’t even discreetly make a phone call from the behind the wheel of a classic sports car in the first lane of the M1.  
“…you know what I mean? I mean, come on!” Liam looked sideways at me, gesturing wildly, hoping for a response to the end of whatever story he’d been telling. I’d tuned him out worrying about all this.  
“Er, Liam I’m sorry - look I have a little problem here,” I said, changing lanes. The driver in the car on the offside did a double take when he saw who was overtaking him and waved at Liam with gusto. My co-pilot ignored him and asked me what the matter was. I explained sheepishly and he said – give me your phone.

I gestured to my bag on the floor, and not for the first time Liam Gallagher was rooting around my grotty handbag. Oh why oh why had I not brought out a nicer, newer one this morning, I wailed internally. I winced watching him rummage amongst crumpled tissues, a Happy Meal toy, various kids snacks, some that I know were half eaten, and I really cringed when he produced a cheque book and said, ‘Seriously?’ I sputtered that it was rude to go through a woman’s hand bag and he said with a wink, ‘you’re not just any woman Carolyn.’

My stomach did an involuntary cartwheel at such an unexpected compliment and then with my phone in his hand he got me to reveal my security number and asked for the name of the childminder. He punched the details in. I changed lanes again and as if in a dream I heard him say in a perfect, clipped Home Counties voice, “Hello? Yes I’m sorry but Carolyn won’t be back on time tonight, she has a dinner date with Liam Gallagher, which simply can’t be moved. He will hit the roof if we have to reschedule again. Please can you contact the next of kin to arrange further childcare. Yes, I realise that but quite frankly I couldn’t give a fuck. Many thanks.” And he hung up, raised his eyebrows at me and said, “There. Not that hard is it.”

I looked back at the road, stunned, feeling a familiar, utterly maternal combination of liberation and guilt, only in a very unfamilar, unorthodox situation. What on earth is going to happen at home now, I thought, virtually shrinking at the wheel in horror. I should have pulled over, taken control and done the responsible thing. But I am no hero. It was selfish I know, and I would end up probably very sorry once all this was over. But I said nothing. Kept driving. Put the drama unfolding in my domestic life in a box labelled 'Tomorrow', and looked across at my passenger, now busy slapping his hands to the music on his knees nodding and humming. Imagine going through life being Liam Gallagher, I thought. The possibilities really are endless. It made my head spin. 

It was late afternoon and we were in real open country by now, well beyond the M25, heading into Oxfordshire on the A41, gentle green hills and sandstone villages every few miles. Cosy pubs and chintzy gift shops and an overabundance of outrageously expensive kitchen shops in this part of the world for some reason. Need a salad bowl/egg timer/funky knife set? Look no further than the Cotswolds. 

Turn off here, he instructed me. A few more left and right turns into a deeply rural area. Down a gated dirt track with a sign lit up at the entrance that in the twilight that I couldn’t make out clearly, and we pulled up outside what looked like a hunting lodge with a gravel driveway, glowing with warm lights, heavy curtains and a huge fireplace. A few people were gathered at the bar, laughing and raising glasses. The place looked expensive and very inviting. Not the kind of retreat I would expect Liam Gallagher to either know nor care about actually, he was full of surprises. But it did look private and these days Liam wasn’t one to be seen at the best parties, so perhaps this suited him. 

We headed inside and I took a deep breath and relaxed. I couldn't do much about whatever was happening at home, but whatever was about to happen next I knew I was going to enjoy myself. He ordered a bottle of Malbec and 2 enormous glasses and left me at the bar for a few minutes. 

He came back in with a swagger, clapped his hands together and said with a smile, 'Nice one!' We settled into a booth near the open fire. Few people were around and it was now dark outside. We pretty much had the place to ourselves.

“Something very sexy about a woman who knows how to handle a big motor,” Liam was saying as he filled my wine glass. “Know what I mean?" he added, giving me a look suggesting he wasn’t talking about cars at all. “Is that right,” I said, clinking my glass against his. “Well seeing as I can’t even fucking drive, yes, for a variety of reasons,” and I felt his leg press hard against mine.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for months,” he went on. “You’re a tricky one. False names here, there and everywhere. Dead ends, broken fucking links. Do I even know your real name? Are you a fed or something?”  
“No of course not,” I laughed. “But I am married, with kids. You might not realise this but my extra-curricular obsession with Oasis - and you by association - is perhaps not the most appropriate hobby a for woman of my age. Not everyone gets it. So it’s easier to just have different handles for my blog, twitter, my character’s name. I didn’t want anything to connect...it's quite deliberate, Monsieur Poirot. It’s not as if I expected to ever have any contact with YOU is it,” I said, taking a big gulp. I laughed out loud. This was ludicrous. "Sorry I didn’t leave my phone number, Liam. I will remember that next time I log on.”

He laughed, leaned forward, reached over and pulled me forward, hand around the back of my head. Kissed me firmly and moaned, "Jesus Carolyn, you do something to me..." He kissed me again. "At a very base level," he added, in that posh Home Counties voice again. My head spun again and I laughed, something at a very base level stirring inside me, too. “You look lovely. Come on. Drink up.”

The wine was delicious and the time flew by. Before I knew it the bottle was empty. I admit I kind of forgot I was the designated driver until it was far too late, and when I realised that it raised a rather obvious question. But like the proactive take-control character I am I did nothing about asking that question and just nodded meekly when Liam held another full bottle over my glass with those famous eyebrows raised. 

Right he said. Dinner? The rooms here are amazing. We can stay if you like. They have a room for us. You can talk me through all your pseudonyms one by one. Probably take us all night.

Bugger the consequences, I thought. This is the chance of a lifetime.

*******


End file.
